Free Lazar by Lawrence Heath Page B

you to me?”
    Jan felt herself stifle the desire to laugh out loud. Was it
in reaction to the shock, she asked herself, or was it because Margaret was
asking the very same questions that she herself was thinking? In God’s name,
who or what was Margaret ? Surely it
was she who was some spirit of the
dead or a messenger?
    A messenger. Yes, that was it. That’s what this is all about
– I’ve got to send a message back through time. The thought dawned on Jan
with sudden clarity. I’ve got to warn Margaret of the storm and the floods and
the drowning of Old Wickwich.
    “What day is it?” she blurted out. Margaret stepped backward.
Jan could see from her expression that the girl was far more frightened and
confused by the encounter than she was. She repeated her question more
precisely. “What is the date? What year is it?”
    “’Tis the Year of Our Lord 1286.”
    “I thought so,” Jan felt something inside her leap for joy. “Don’t
tell me, let me guess. It’s the twenty-eighth of July – am I right?”
    “Yes.” Margaret took another step backward.
    “And the weather – what’s the weather like?”
    For the first time since they had met, Margaret took her eyes
off Jan and looked nervously from side to side then up at the sky.
    “’Tis warm and dry. Why?”
    “Warm and dry? Is there no sign of a storm?”
    Margaret looked back at Jan and frowned, obviously bewildered
by this line of questioning.
    “The wind’s rising from the east, but ’tain’t nothing much. The
fishing fleet’s still putting out to sea.”
    “No, they mustn’t – you must stop them,” Jan shouted
with such fervour that Margaret made to turn and run.
    “No, don’t go,” Jan took hold of Margaret’s sleeve, then let
go, conscious of the alarm in Margaret’s face. “I don’t mean you any harm. We’re
friends – remember? This ring’s a token of that friendship and I think
you’re right, I think it has brought me to you.
    “I’m here to warn you of the dreadful storm that will come
tomorrow night, on St Lazarus’ Day. It’s going to destroy half of the city. The
eastern side of Wickwich will be drowned beneath the sea. You’ve got to tell
everyone to take their possessions and evacuate their homes.”
    Margaret stood staring at Jan in disbelief. She began,
slowly, to shake her head from side to side. “No, no, no,” she intoned quietly.
“That cannot be. The sea wall’s just been reinforced, it can withstand the highest
tide.”
    “Not the one that’s coming tomorrow night. Five churches and
their parishes will be washed away. St Michael, St Bartholomew, St …”
    “No, no,” Margaret was shouting now. “I don’t believe you. You’re
lying. It can’t be true.”
    “But it is, it is true – believe me. The city’s doomed.
Over the centuries it will be completely washed away. All that will be left are
the ruins of this monastery and…”
    “Ruins?” Margaret gazed up toward where Jan guessed the
central tower once stood, square and solid against the sky.
    “Yes, ruins,” Jan insisted, and swung her arm out over the
rubbled remains of the wall. “See, noth… ouch!” She yelped with pain and drew
back her hand, its knuckles grazed and bleeding. In the excitement of meeting
Margaret she had temporarily forgotten about the phenomenon of the wall that
was and was not there.
    She put her knuckles to her lips and looked up at Margaret. She
looked totally confused. Jan was obviously not acting in the way that a young
medieval girl expected spirits of the dead or messengers from Heaven to behave.
In fact, Jan sensed, she was about to burst out laughing.
    “No, honestly,” Jan pleaded, her concern at losing the
initiative amplified by her hurt pride, “I’m deadly serious. I’ve come from the
future to warn you. You must let
everyone in Wickwich know that their city’s doomed. Look, look…”
    Jan had suddenly remembered the guidebook. She snatched it from
her pocket and opened it outwards,